Forever Yours
by ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe
Summary: 'It will be forever mine, and it'll be forever yours'...but you're not here anymore, and I'm left on my own. Don't be dead, Sherlock. Please. JW/SH, suppose it could be slash if you squint really hard and tilt your head to the left...One Shot, R&R.


**Forever Yours  
><em>A Sherlock fic<em>**

**Just a little Sherlock one shot. I am seriously obsessed (and completely proud of it), and I know that hundreds of Johnlock reunion fics are already on this site, but I couldn't resist. I plan to write some longer, multi-chapter SH stories in the future – already have two/three mapped out in my mind palace!  
>This is by no means my writing at the best of it's ability – it's two years (to the day) that my Grandad died, my nan was taken into hospital in the early hours of the morning, and I've got craploads of homework to get done for Monday, but I wanted to get something out there...apologies!<br>All review are welcome, I respond to every one – if you aren't a member of FF but have Twitter/Tumblr, leave your username/URL with your anonymous review and I'll reply through that.  
>Keep Cumberbitchin'!<br>Saskia xxx**

_Remember the time when we stole the whole day? Nobody knows it, we took it away and it'll be forever mine, and it'll be forever yours...now we own the night and it can't be undone._ – Forever Yours by Alex Day (Nerimon on Youtube)

**~John POV~**

I watched him fall from the roof.

After that, everything goes a bit blurry. I remember seeing his bloodied, broken body; cold, glazed eyes that would never crease in a smile or frown again, lifeless, limp hands that had studied their last case...his immeasurable bran mingling with the blood spreading across the pavement. I remember this with startling clarity, but I cannot recall how...when..._if..._I got home. I remember sitting in my chair at 221B Baker Street, staring at the place where he should be sat, his long fingers steepled together against his lips, and coming to terms with the reality that my flatmate...and best friend...was dead.

The days...weeks...that followed are a mash of unforgiving journalists, unhelpful therapy and the difficulty of living in a flat surrounded by his crap. Most of the things we owned came from him, and I couldn't bring myself to move any of it. One day I remember all too well was the day Mrs Hudson and I visited his grave. He didn't really have a funeral, as such. Too many people had turned away from him in the last weeks of his life to leave us with the capability of filling even a single pew. Instead, our..._my_ landlady and I had stood at his grave, staring at the black headstone, just...being. I asked him not to be dead. Of all people, of all the people I had seen die...he was the only one brilliant enough for me to ask that of.

...

It's been months. 10 months and 13 days exactly, but Ella says I shouldn't dwell on dates like that. For the hundredth time, I find myself retracing out steps, the steps we took as we solved cases (well, he solved them and I...watched). I've lost count of the number of times I've been here. It's the alley where I punched him in the face. He may have asked me to, but now he's gone, I feel guilty about the slightest of things that I never apologised for to his face. Numerous people have told me to move on; that he was a fraud who got off on the attention. Fraud or not, her was still my best friends. Even high-functioning sociopaths have friends. You don't just 'get over' your best friend's death, not when they died right in front of you and there was _nothing_ you could do about it, regardless of the 'Dr.' that came in front of your name. And despite was the papers say, I don't believe he ever lied to me. No one could be so arrogant, blunt and brilliant all the time if it was an act.

...

I blink, and realise where I've come. I curse, furious at myself. I find myself gripping my cane tighter as I look across the road at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, or more specifically the roof of the hospital. I can still see him falling, black coat billowing as he...

"John?" I hear a timid voice to my left and find Molly Hooper standing there. I take in several things at once. She's still wearing her lab coat, so this can only be a fleeting visit out of the morgue. Her face seems thinner, as if she'd lost a lot of weight and was only just regaining it. Her eye was twitching slightly, indicating higher stress levels, but her lipstick looked like it had just been reapplied, so clearly not so stressed that she had disregard for how she looked. "You probably shouldn't be here." She says nervously.  
>"I know, Molly." I acknowledge, looking back across the road, this time focussing on the pavement where he landed. "I don't come here intentionally."<br>"Well, would you like to come sit with me for a bit? We could both use the company." She laughs nervously. I tear my gaze away from his death place and look back at the clearly stressed pathologist.  
>"I don't think that's really a good idea." I answer, fumbling for a way to withdraw from human contact again, retreating within myself in the way I did so frequently.<br>"Don't be silly, John. We both know why you don't want to go in there, and that's exactly the reason why you should." Molly's eyes, usually so soft and malleable, hardened into something akin to authority. Looking into her brown eyes, I was suddenly reminded of him, and his ability to make even the hardest man crumble just with the force of his gaze. I sigh angrily.  
>"Go on then." I concede, pointing my feet in the direction of the doors and limping towards them, steeling myself for the flush of memories hidden within the walls of the hospital.<p>

...

Sitting in the morgue, a cold cup of tea in front of me. I've been here maybe an hour, sat with Molly as she types up reports on her desktop computer. We don't talk much, which I appreciate. His presence is so much stronger here, almost as strong as it is at Baker Street. I tap my cane against the floor, impatient, wanting to leave. She looks at me quickly, her hands trembling slightly. She pushes her chair away from the desk and stands up.  
>"Come on. I know where you need to go." She offers her hand. I stare at it for a moment. Where...oh. No. No way. I stand up, brushing past the small woman who has developed so many more frown lines over the past ten months. It can't have been easy on her, I suppose, she was in love with him, and yet she was still the one who performed the (pointless) autopsy.<br>"No, Molly, I can't. Thank you for the tea and company, but I really should be going now." I say sharply, reaching for the door handle.  
>"John." She says, and I stop. "Please. It'll help you. Trust me." She smiles, and the sincerity in her face pulls at something in me. I give up.<br>"Lead the way." I say bitterly, gesturing wildly. She walks past me and holds the door open for me. I hobble past her, going straight for the stairs.

We reach the door to the roof and I stop. I can't bring myself to walking that extra step to go past it, out onto the roof where he spoke his last words to me. Part of me resists because I don't want to be there at all, that the rooftop makes it seem to final. The other part of me...a larger part...doesn't want to step out because it believes that the temptation to follow _him_ over the edge will become too much. I feel a soft, warm hand slip into mine, and I look down again at Molly, who has inexplicably refreshed her lipstick again. There are two pink spots in her cheeks that weren't there before, and her eyes hold something more than loss. She stretches her hand out and pushes the door.

Instantly, I can see the tall man standing near the edge, dark hair being blown in tandem with his long coat. I know it's an illusion, that being on the roof has brought my hallucinations back to the forefront of my mind and that I'm imagining his final moments. He turns to me, and I pick out small details that don't quite fit – his hair is longer than before, his skin a shade darker as though he'd returned from a foreign country recently. The scarf he is wearing is darker than the one he was wearing on that day, and the shoes are more scuffed. I frown, wondering why my mind is replacing details with false ones. Molly steps back into the shadows, and the man speaks.  
>"Hello John."<p>

...

He stares at me as he crosses the roof to where I'm standing, my hand clutching my cane like it was the only solid thing in the world. I stare back, trying to comprehend how he can be here, alive, when I saw him fall...jump..._die_...ten months previously.  
>"John?" He asks again, now only a couple of metres in front of me. As always, his chiselled face portrays little emotion, but I can see flickers behind his eyes...calculating, like usual. I try to speak, choke, swallow, try again.<br>"Sherlock?" I stammer. "How...you...what?" I shake my head, hardly believing what was clearly in front of me.  
>"I faked my death, and everyone, including you, had to believe it." I turn back to the door, where Molly has obviously just left. "Molly helped me. She was the only one who could, as Moriarty believed she meant nothing to me. He had guns trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and would've given the order had I not jumped. Luckily, I'd already planned for that eventuality, so we all escaped." I shake my head again, my confusion and relief at seeing him alive quickly giving way to more controlling emotions. I glare at him.<br>"10 months, Sherlock. You let me believe you were dead for 10 months! Do you have any idea about what I've gone through?" I snarl.  
>"I've been watching you. You took it worse than I thought you would...even your limp has come back." he comments, pointing loosely to my cane.<br>"You've been _watching_ me? So you were allowed to know that I was still alive, but I couldn't know the same about you?" My hand clenches into a fist and I punch him, hard. He recoils, one hand cupping his face. "You couldn't send me a sign...anything...to keep me from going insane?" I swallow the sudden lump that has appeared in my throat. I step forward and grab him in a violent hug. To my surprise, he hugs me back just as hard. I feel his heartbeat next to mine and am fully convinced that he is alive. "I missed you, dick." I say lightly. He leans back without letting go of me.  
>"I know." His baritone vibrates in my ears and I smile, stepping out of his arms. I feel cold all of a sudden. I walk back to the door.<br>"You coming home?" I ask, pausing in at the top of the stairs.  
>"That depends...are all my things still in their right places?"<br>"Yes, I haven't moved anything...well, apart from getting your experiments out of the fridge."  
>"What about my skull?"<br>"Your skull is by your bed. Mrs Hudson made me move that because it creeped her out."  
>"You'd better go in first. She will most probably need a chair."<br>"Of course. There's a few cases that have been submitted to the blog, by the way. Someone even asked that we investigate your death."  
>"That's ridiculous. Your blog leads to far too much stupid."<br>"There's also a possible serial killer, a bunch of kidnappings..."  
>"Excellent."<br>**Review?**


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